Infuriating
by Aebhel
Summary: She's a princess and he's a criminal. She's shallow, conceited, and spoiled...he's a good for nothing punk with a nose for trouble. They have nothing in common. Or so they think.
1. A Really Good Kiss

He is absolutely the most infuriating person I've ever met in my entire life, parents included. And trust me, that's saying something. 

I couldn't ignore him. I just could not. Fucking. Ignore him. None of us could.

_Sweets, you couldn't ignore me if you tried._

Not that I didn't try to. It shouldn't have been that hard. He's definitely not my kind of guy. He's got nothing in common with the clean-shaven, crew-cut varsity lettermen who've made up my selected dating pool since sophomore year. Nothing at all. He's scruffy, for one thing. His hair's too long and his nose is crooked and he wears layers of grungy flannel and chains that create their own music as he walks. And he smells. It's not a bad smell, exactly--strong soap, tobacco, the sharp tang of pot--but it's certainly not anything to make a girl melt.

Especially not me.

But somehow--for some goddamn reason--I couldn't ignore him.

_I'm not that pristine._

And that _smile!_ God, that arrogant, cocky, know-it-all smile he gets when he knows he's got you backed into a corner.

_Hopping down into the seat in front of me, smiling a little. That_ fucking _smile!_

_"Are you a virgin?"_

_He leans forward, eyes intent, and I'm suddenly struck by how much bigger he is than me. I can almost feel the heat radiating off him. My mouth works silently--what am I supposed to say? No? Yes? There isn't nearly enough space between us, and I can see the smug smile beginning in his hooded eyes even as I start to deny it._

_"I'll bet you a million dollars...that you are."_

John Bender. Delinquent. Criminal. _Not_ someone that I want to be associated with. Except...

Except he's got that way of cocking his head when he's looking at me. And the too-long, dark hair that's always flopping into his face. And his eyes, dark and heavy-lidded with secrets and pot. And his skin--oh God, his skin, warm and smooth under my lips, pulse pounding so hard that I can hear it--his or mine, I don't even know.

And he kissed me, there in the parking lot. Right in front of everyone. Of course, 'everyone' was just the rest of the Breakfast Club, and they probably thought we were doing it when I went to find him in the closet, but still. He _kissed me._

It was a really good kiss, too.

And I gave him my earring. And he kept it.

Oh, God, what am I going to do at school on Monday?


	2. Of Cigarettes and Earrings

My ceiling is really fucking ugly.

See, I don't generally spend a lot of time in my room unless I can't avoid it, and the times when I can't avoid it are generally times when I am in no condition to do anything other than lay on the bed and stare at said ceiling. So while I probably couldn't tell you what color my walls are, I can say with confidence that my ceiling is ugly.

I bring the cigarette to my lips and wince as it touches bruised and swollen flesh. I am a fucking idiot.

Dad's still raging around downstairs. I'd feel sorry for Mom if it weren't for the fact that I'm pretty sure she snuck out the backdoor while he was exchanging words for me. He's an idiot too—hasn't even noticed that there's no one around to listen to him. Bastard.

My knuckles hurt. The old man has a granite jaw, that's one thing I'll say for him—he can take a punch. Of course, so can I. Got a documented history, don't I?

_Go on, hit me!_

Shut up, Dick. I didn't spend the whole day listening to you just so I could think about it afterwards.

_You go visit John Bender in five years, you'll see how goddamn _funny_ he is!_

Shut_ up_, Dick!

Amazingly enough, he listens this time. I take another drag and exhale smoke at the water-stained ceiling, wishing I had something a little stronger than nicotine to take my mind off things. That's what I get for giving away the last of my stash to my fellow delinquents this afternoon—a bit of uncharacteristic generosity that I'm already starting to regret.

Although it was a pretty entertaining way to spend detention.

_I am so popular…everybody loves me at this school…_

Ah, Claire. My spoiled, snobby little princess. Much more pleasant to think about than Vernon, even if you are a fucking bitch from time to time.

_China-doll skin, soft lips parted. Eyes dilated, hypnotized, and I know that if I lean forward and kiss her she won't do a thing to stop me. Still don't know why I didn't._

God, she's gorgeous. Like a wet-dream come to life. Gorgeous and stuck-up and irritating, and I can't stop thinking about her. Which at least part of the reason I'm laying in bed on a Saturday night with a swollen lip and a diamond in my ear.

Like I said, I'm a fucking idiot.

I sit up and flick the cigarette butt out the window, watching it fall, half-hoping it'll land on something flammable. No such luck—it hits the frosty grass and goes out with an inaudible sizzle.

Dad's finally shut up, but I can hear the TV playing. Must be a game on tonight. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and shove my feet into the worn-out combat boots, reaching for my coat. Freddie should be out of work by now, and he can always be counted on for couch-space and weed. And it's probably best not to be around when the old man runs out of beer and comes looking for some other way to pass the time.

I shove my hair out of my face, and my fingers brush against the earring. Still can't believe she gave me the damn thing, it's probably worth more than everything I own. If I sold it, I'd be set for a long time...but I know I won't.

Feeling much more cheerful than anyone in my position has any right to be, I climb out the window and head for the center of town.


	3. The Ride Home

A/N: Not so fond of this chapter, but I think it's necessary. I've tried to curb my gratuitous use of profanity; a task which I find a lot easier writing from Claire's POV...

It has been a strange day. I guess I just can't reconcile the person I was this morning with who I am now.

Dad's talking, something about a dinner party he's going to tonight. Mom won't go, but I'm not to trouble my head about it. As if I would. I lean my head against the window, watching the stark March landscape speed past.

"Honey? Honey, you haven't said a word the whole ride."

I blink and try to look like I'm paying attention. "Sorry, Daddy."

He smiles, that good-old-Ted-Standish smile that makes his clients trust him. It makes me want to strangle him. "That's all right, sweetheart. How was your day?"

_Well, Dad, I gave away my diamond earring, smoked a joint, and made out with Shermer High School's premier criminal in the janitor's closet..._

"Fine," I say instead. He still hasn't said anything about John, even though I know he must have seen us kissing as he pulled up. Knowing my father, he _won't _say anything, but he'll go crazy wondering about it, which is almost as good.

There's a long, uncomfortable silence. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him run a hand through his short, thinning hair. He fidgets with the wedding ring on his left hand, which I'm almost certain he only puts on when Mom can see him.

After about five minutes of this, he clears his throat.

"So, who was that guy?"

I guess we're going to talk about it after all. I shrug, hiding a smile.

"What guy?"

"The--uh, the guy I saw you with when I pulled up. He looked familiar."

John looks familiar to my father? That's news. "Oh, him?" I say off-handedly. "That was John Bender. I met him in detention."

I sit back and watch the effect these words have upon my father. He swallows and brakes abruptly for a stop sign.

"That--is he Alfred Bender's son?"

I shrug. "I don't know, Daddy, I just met him today." I pause. "I guess he might be."

I can tell that he dearly wants to tell me to stay far, far away from the delinquent clutches of John Bender, but the urge directly conflicts with his instinct to give me everything my precious little heart desires. His mouth works silently for a few minutes.

"Well, just...be careful, okay, sweetheart?" he says finally, pulling into the driveway. "I've heard some things about Alfred Bender that...well, just be careful."

_John's face, cold and hard, no sign of that ever-present smile. "Don't you _ever_ compare yourself to me--you got everything and I got shit!"_

I step out of the car, my smug amusement fading, and climb the porch steps without a word.

Oh, yes, Dad. I'll be careful.


	4. At Stubby's

I shouldn't have come. Mom's going to kill me--or rather, Mom's going to go make inroads on yet another bottle of merlot, which is worse. And Dad will bitch and moan and find excuses to go to the office on Sunday, and Marion, our maid, will quit again, and this party is simply not worth the amount of trouble it's going to cause me later. 

I just don't learn, that's my problem. 

Andy isn't even here to keep me company. I mean, we never really hung out much before, but of the whole Breakfast Club, he's the one who's in my group, and I really wanted to see him... 

Oh, hell, who am I kidding? I just couldn't stand another night of silent warfare. I don't know why it bothers me so much all of a sudden--they've been doing it since I was nine, at least--but tonight, I just couldn't deal with it. 

I don't even know anyone here other than Stubby and a few of his friends. Looks like mostly college students. That's a feather in Stubby's cap and he's going to be lording it over the whole school on Monday--assuming he remembers any of it, which might be assuming a lot--but it means that I don't have anyone to talk to. 

I take a sip from my wine cooler and grimace. I _hate_ the taste of alcohol. The only way I can stand it is if it's mixed with something sweet, and even then it tastes gross. 

"Hey Claire!" 

Some college girl. Skintight jeans, bangles, big hoop earrings and blonde hair teased within an inch of its life. She looks like a high-class hooker. And I have no idea how she knows my name. 

"What?" 

She lays a hand on my arm. Her fingernails are red, and about half again the length of her fingers. Now _that's_ classy. 

_Snob..._ whispers a voice in the back of my mind. My conscience, I'm amused to discover, sounds remarkably like John Bender. 

The girl's talking. 

"...you probably don't remember me, Cheryl introduced us at her birthday bash last month--I'm Tiffany." She smiles, showing very white teeth. "Anyway, we're having a poker game out by the pool. You should come out. It's too hot in here anyway, and the guys are being assholes." 

That's true, at least. I glance around the room and realize that there are almost no girls left inside. A gaggle of frat boys and sports huddles around the keg, and from the sounds of things, a fight's about to break out. Tiffany follows my gaze and grimaces.

"Come on. Let's get out of here before the shit hits the fan." 

Finally, I smile at her. 

"Okay, but I don't really know how to play poker." 

Oh, that's fine," she says airily. "None of us does, except for John. He's teaching us girls." 

_John? Not Bender, he'd never show up at one of these parties..._

I snort. Of course it isn't Bender--there are plenty of guy named John, after all... 

But then I push the screen door open and step out onto the deck and there he is, lounging next to the pool with four or five girls, trenchcoat wrapped around his broad shoulders, looking more at ease than he has any right to. And before I can do or say anything, he glances up. 

Our eyes meet, and he gives me one of those little grins. 

"Why hello, princess. Fancy meeting you here." 


	5. Poker

Freddie made me come.

Not that he can really _make_ me do anything, and even if he could, he wouldn't, but I feel I should explain what the hell a fine specimen of juvenile delinquency such as myself is doing at a Richie-spoiled-brat party.

Therefore, for the purposes of this discussion, Freddie made me come. Price I pay for spending half my nights sleeping on his couch.

I should have known she'd be here.

Her mouth is working silently, and I'm a little comforted to know that she's at least as freaked out to see me as I am to see her, and she doesn't hide it nearly as well. I pat the deck next to me.

"Come on, Claire, have a seat."

She hesitates, and I smile, meeting her eyes, challenging her. Her chin comes up and she stalks over to me, sitting very deliberately in the place I indicated. That's my princess. She's breathing hard and refuses to meet my eyes. The other girls are looking at both of us like we're nuts. Maybe we are. I tap the deck sharply, and everyone jumps.

"Let's play cards."

(bd)

Claire is a terrible poker player. I don't mean she's not gifted, or she needs a little more practice--she's terrible. Appalling. So awful that I actually start to feel bad about winning, even though we aren't betting anything.

On the other hand...

"Let's shake things up a little," I say after the sixth round. "Poker's no fun when there's nothing in the pot."

"I'm broke," says the cute broad--Tiffany Something--regretfully.

The Princess pulls out her purse. I raise my eyebrows at her. "I'm not interested in your Daddy's money, _Cherry._"

She shuts the purse with an audible snap and grits her teeth. "You don't even know if you're going to win."

"I know for damn sure that _you_ aren't." She looks like she wants to cry or throw something. Score one for Bender. The other girls are staring at me but I ignore them, giving Claire my most charming smile. "Besides, money're boring. I bet I can think of something you have that's a lot more interesting than cash."

I lean back against the railing and watch as this sinks in, but before she can react there's a loud crash from inside the house, and the sound of glass breaking. Tiffany jumps up, swearing, and runs inside. The other girls glance at each other and then, coming to some kind of silent decision, step off the porch and disappear into the darkness beyond the streetlamps. Claire gets to her feet, looking indecisive. Without knowing quite why, I stand up, too.

"We should--" she begins, and breaks off again, glancing toward the house, which is resonating with the sound of angry male voices. I grab her hand before she can do anything too stupid.

"The neighbors are gonna call the cops any minute now, Princess. You got a ride home?"

She looks uncomfortable. "Sure."

_Liar._ "Well, how about I walk you to it? Wouldn't want you getting grabbed by some hoodlum on the way out to the street, would we?"

"The only hoodlum I'm worried about is you," she mutters, but starts walking.

"That hurts," I say cheerfully, falling into step next to her. "It really does. I don't remember you complaining earlier today."

Color rises in her cheeks, visible even in the dim yellow streetlamp as we round the side of the house. It really is too easy. "You're a pig."

We stop at the sidewalk. She bites her lip while I stare conspicuously at the empty street. "Looks like your ride decided to wander off."

"I'm getting picked up," she snaps.

"Yeah? When?"

A moment of dead silence while she stares at me, silently willing me to leave. I shove my hands deeper into the pockets of Dad's old trench coat, pretending innocence. Her coat is thinner than mine--probably because she wanted to look good for the party (and damn, does she)--and she's starting to shiver while she waits for me to leave.

"My brother's picking me up," she says after a little while.

I grin. "Don't worry, Princess, I'll wait here with you. Wouldn't want you to get accosted by _hoodlums_, after all."

I watch her face change as it finally sinks in that I'm not leaving. She's completely transparent. Surprise, irritation, resignation, and...happiness?

No fucking way.

"I guess it's not that far to walk," she says, and this time I can hear a question in her voice. Is she actually asking me to walk her home? My fingers find my ear, involuntarily, playing with the earring. She glances at it and hides a smile.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Making out in the janitor's closet or even kissing outside the school to freak out her old man is one thing but I can tell from the way she's looking at me that just walking her home might mean something I haven't even guessed at yet. This is getting over my head, but since when have I ever been one to exercise common sense? I gesture to the street, grandly. "Lead on, Claire."


	6. The Princess and the Pauper

A/N: Yes, I know it's short. I'm feeling creative though, and will probably be updating somewhat more regularly.

The silence should be uncomfortable, but somehow it isn't. And okay, it isn't really silent either. Not that we're talking or anything, but there are cars going by and the wind rushing in my ears and the sound of John walking next to me, all chains and rasping fabric and heavy, clomping boots.

The smell of cigarette smoke should not be this sexy.

About a block away from Stubby's, I realize that he never let go of my hand. I don't know why I didn't notice it earlier, but I guess there's something about holding hands with John that seems natural, effortless. His palm is warm and calloused. He isn't wearing his gloves.

He seems to notice at the same time that I do, and immediately drops my hand. For some reason, this makes me smile. John's so cocky, so confident, but somehow I get the feeling that he's out of his depth, and knows it.

"Jesus Christ, how many rooms does one house need?" he mutters, and I suddenly realize that the trains of our thoughts are not going in even remotely the same direction. I glance over at John, but his face is closed, giving nothing away. Suddenly, I'm intensely aware of the tattered hems of his coat, the discolorations on his scarf, the scuff marks on his old boots. I don't know where John lives--until this morning, I wasn't aware that John existed--but I'm willing to bet it's nothing like this.

As we approach my house, I take in the neatly manicured lawn, the Greek columns on the front porch, and feel oddly ashamed. I didn't do anything to deserve this. And John didn't do anything to deserve a father who puts cigars out on his arm. His lower lip is slightly swollen. Was that his father too?

I'm almost afraid to indicate my house, afraid of what he might say, but we can't keep walking forever.

"Here," I say meekly and wait for the sneer, but it never comes.

"It's been a pleasure, sweetheart." He half smiles at me and makes as if to go, but relief makes me bold and I call out to him.

"John!"

He cocks his head and steps toward me. I grope for words, something appropriate. "Thanks for walking me home," I finally manage.

He smiles again, a real smile this time, sweet and wicked with the sharp edges of teeth showing. "No problem."

And he leans down and brushes his lips against the side of my mouth before turning to go. I stand in the driveway and watch until the darkness swallows him up.


	7. Falling Apart

I don't know what's worse, getting in trouble for sneaking out or sneaking back in and realizing that no one even realized you were gone. Scratch that. I do know which is worse. Mom is sprawled out on the sofa with a champagne bottle clutched loosely in her fingers. Marion is packing furiously, muttering under her breath in Spanish. I don't understand much of what she's saying, but I bet it isn't very nice. Dad's done us all one better and left. I have no idea when--or if--he's coming back.

God.

I just wanted to go to the fucking party.

I hate my family.

So it's one-thirty in the morning and I'm sitting cross-legged on my pink comforter, which Mom almost wouldn't let me buy because she said the pink would clash horribly with my hair. I'm still in my party clothes and I don't want to get undressed and put my pajamas on because that would make this whole screwed up situation real. It's like if I stay here long enough, if I pretend nothing's changed, time will eventually turn around and heal everything. It would probably have to go pretty far back to fix this mess, though.

_It's like any minute--divorce._

Isn't this what I wanted? Divorce would be easier. Dad could go screw his secretary to his heart's content. Mom could join AA and find a new boyfriend. I could go move in with Ricky until everything settled down. I mean, I don't think he really wants to share apartment space with his sixteen year old brat sister, but I could get a job, pay my way through...

Oh, God, who am I kidding? I wouldn't know the first thing about working. Working and going to school, 'cause there's no way I'm dropping out, that's for juvenile delinquents like John...

I burst into tears, surprising myself. Fuck. _Fuck._ Why did this have to happen now? I was doing okay, I was kind of numb, shopping with my girlfriends, focusing on silk shirts and expensive perfume and suede boots because they were just _things_ and while they didn't care any more than Mom and Dad do, they didn't hurt, either. I was coasting.

And then today had to happen. The Breakfast Club. And there's something about watching a guy like Andrew Clarke break down in front of you that makes you do some serious thinking about yourself. Something about seeing John Bender, terror of Shermer High, admit to his fear and pain that makes your own, however much less it might be, seem more real. They saved me, the four of them. And they ruined my life.

Not that Mom and Dad haven't already done a pretty good job of that. A door slams upstairs and there are heavy footsteps hurrying down the stairs. Marion. She quits almost every month, but for some reason this time, I think it's for real. I poke my head out of the door, hoping she'll stop or even call me _querida _the way she did when I was little, but she ploughs on down the hall, head down, rough hair all over the place. I back inside my room and shut the door again.

Then I kick off my shoes and start looking for my pajamas.


	8. Waiting for Claire

So, it's Monday morning and I'm at school. Not just on time, but _early._

Contrary to what Vernon would have the general populace believe, this isn't entirely unheard of. What is unheard of is the fact that there is no financial motivation, nor did I get kicked out of Freddie's place by his bitch of a girlfriend. No, I set the alarm clock, woke up, got out of bed, and came to school all because of...what?

Good question.

The buses aren't even here yet. There are a couple of kids hanging around, but no one I know. Mostly look like the Dweeb, with their coats buttoned all the way up to the Adams Apple and their fuzz-ball hair. They stay away from me. This is probably wise.

I lean back against the brick wall and stretch, trying to get some of the kinks out of my shoulder. That's what I get for spending the night at home—I always forget how lumpy my mattress is. Freddie's couch is more comfortable. Hell, Freddie's _floor_ is probably more comfortable than my bed.

Finally, I give it up as a lost cause and slouch against the wall, shoving my hands deep into the pockets of my trenchcoat. This apparently gives me a menacing appearance, because a couple of freshmen take a wide detour around me. I'm hurt, really I am.

Stupid midgets.

She isn't here yet. Isn't she the kind of girl who would be early to school, so she can go in and touch up her makeup before class starts? That's what princesses like her do, isn't it?

Not that I'm waiting for her or anything. Because really, I could give a shit.

I light a cigarette, blow a cloud of smoke toward the leafless trees, and close my eyes. It's going to be a good day, I can tell. Hell, I might even go to my first period class. If I can remember what it is...

Sudden burst of sound. I open my eyes, just in time to take in the inspiring sight of six or seven hung-over jocks in their lettermen's jackets stampeding toward the main entrance. Fucking school spirit. We should just take them all out to the football field and put them down. Except maybe Sporto. I squint, but he doesn't seem to be with them.

God _damn_ it! Where is she?

The cigarette's already burned down to the butt. Mostly for something to do with my hands, I pull out another one light it. Don't even smoke, really, just let it dangle from my fingertips while I scan the parking lot. This is really fucking idiotic. What am I gonna do even if she does show up? Walk over and shake hands with her daddy? Ha-fucking-ha.

I close my eyes again, sucking in a mouthful of smoke, which I promptly gag on when she says "Hey John," from somewhere in front of me. I open my eyes, but am mostly preoccupied with making sure I don't start coughing so I can't really see much of anything.

"Hey, Cherry," I say back when my lungs clear. I blink a couple of times. Her hair is all flat and she doesn't look like she's wearing any makeup. Jeans and a t-shirt, too, looks like old ones. She looks like she hasn't slept in about a week. I almost want to ask what's wrong, but instead I cock my head and grin at her. "BMW in the shop?"

"I walked," she says tiredly.

"This is a new look for you."

"Yeah." She fidgets with the strap of her purse, not quite meeting my eyes, like she has something she wants to say but just can't spit it out.

I give in to the inevitable. "Something wrong?"

She bites her lip and glances up through her lashes, like it's totally unintentional and she has no idea what that kind of thing does to guys. Either she really is pristine or she's the best tease _I've_ ever met. Her hands look pale and cold and I take them between mine and begin to chafe them without really thinking about what I'm doing. She gives a weird little sob and leans forward until her forehead is touching my chest. "Dad left," she mutters into my t-shirt.

And for some reason, instead of bitching her out and telling her that she has no right to be upset with her little broken fairy-tale life when I had to climb in my window last night just so my old man wouldn't use me as a punching bag, I wrap an arm around her waist and pull her close. I kind of expect her to pull away, this being a public location and all, but she doesn't. She barely comes up to my chin, all soft curves and fragile bones, tense for a moment and then melting into me with a soft sigh.

I don't know how long we stand there, but more and more people are showing up and we're starting to get weird looks, and we're gonna have to either move or explain ourselves. I pull away a little. "Hey, Claire."

She looks up. Defensive. "What?"

I start walking toward the parking lot, tugging her along with me. "Come on. We're taking a field trip."


	9. The Field Trip

"Where are we?"

John raises his eyebrows at me, slamming the car door shut. "I always figured a smart girl like you could read." He points at a stark white sign, rusty around the edges.

"Anderson Steel Mill," I say aloud. "I can read. Why did you bring me here?"

He grins impudently. "So I can murder you and bury your body under the pump house. Come on."

"You're such a dick," I mutter, but don't really mean it. The building is old and sprawling, with crumbling brick walls and exposed metal pipes. Scruffy yellow grass crowds out the pavement. It's also totally empty. If John _was_ planning on murdering me, this would be the ideal place to do it. "Are you sure it isn't condemned?"

"I come out here all the time," he says. "It's not gonna collapse." He starts walking, heavy boots crunching on the frosty grass. Like an idiot, I follow him.

"You still haven't told me why you brought me here."

John shrugs, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. "I would take you out to a nice restaurant but I'm broke. My sugar-daddy cut me off."

"Would it kill you to be serious for even, like, five seconds?"

He nods solemnly. "It might. I don't want to risk it."

Resigning myself to the fact that I'm not going to get a straight answer out of him, I speed my steps up to match his long strides. "Why do you come out here?"

He slants a look at me, and his dark eyes are unreadable. "Sometimes my house isn't a real healthy place to be. I can't crash on my friends' couches all the time."

"You _sleep_ here?"

"Sometimes." He shrugs again, like it's no big deal, but his jaw is set and I'm thinking it might be a good idea to change the subject. Before I can say anything, though, he does it for me. "So what happened with your dad?"

Great. Not exactly what I had in mind for a topid of conversation. I wrap my arms over my chest, acutely conscious of the cold. "He and Mom had an argument while I was at the party on Saturday." I pause.

There's a long, awkward silence, broken only by the rusty squeal of hinges as John shoulders the metal door open. He blocks the entrance and raises his eyebrows at me. "And...?"

I look at me feet. John isn't quite the last person I want to talk about this to, but he's close. He's being nice now, but I can't help remembering how sympathetic he _wasn't_ on Sarurday afternoon. Still, it's cold out and the look he's giving me says quite clearly that I'm not getting through the door until I tell him. "Dad's seeing another woman, and Mom found out. Then Dad started in on how Mom's been drinking lately, which is kind of stupid since the only reason she's drinking is because of how he's acting and..." I draw a long shuddering breath. "I kind of walked right into the middle of it. They didn't even notice I was there."

I shove my hands deep into the pockets of my jeans and wait for him to make some kind of snide comment. It's so quiet that I can hear the slow, thoughtful sound of his breathing. Finally, he shifts and I look up.

There's a wry smile on his lips, but he steps aside and lets me inside. "That sucks."

I smile back, a little. "Yeah." The doorway's narrow enough that I have to brush past him to get inside and just like Saturday night I'm suddenly acutely aware of his size and the heat he seems to be giving off.

Then he lets the door swing shut and we're surrounded by musty gloom. I hesitate, pressed almost chest-to-chest to him. He looks thoughtful in the dim light and for one dizzy moment, I'm almost sure he's going to kiss me again. He licks his lips deliberately, then steps back. "I want to show you something, Cherry."

I shake my head, not so much in denial as to shake my thoughts loose from how _good_ he looks, ratty coat, shaggy hair, cigarette smoke and all. "Do you have to call me that?"

The corners of John's mouth curl into a hint of his trademark smirk. "Well, you are." He raises an eyebrow challengingly. "Unless you wanted to do something about that? I have a mattress here..."

"Asshole," I mutter and stomp past him, chin held high.


	10. The View

John obviously knows where he's going and the abandoned steel mill is bigger than it looks from the outside - I'm completely lost. Galling though it is, I have no choice but to follow along behind him. As if he knows this, and is amused by it, he picks up the pace so I have to hurry to keep up with his long strides. I don't say anything, even though I'm quickly out of breath; I just stalk along beside him, trying desperately to keep my puffing under control.

Damn him anyway! Does he get a kick out of throwing me off balance?

I snort with the tiny amount of breath I have left. Of course he does. This is John Bender we're talking about. Aggravating is his middle name. Or it should be, anyway. As if to prove my internal point, he flashes me one of those infuriating little grins of his.

"See, Princess? Isn't this better than school?"

A reluctant smile twitches at the edges of my lips. It is, sort of. Even though I'm cold and out of breath and trapped in the company of one of Shermer High School's most infamous delinquents, it's better than school. _Different,_ certainly.

"What are you showing me?" I manage.

His grin widens almost imperceptibly. "Now _that_ would be telling."

"Oh, great," I mutter.

John shakes his head as he starts to climb rusty metal stairs, two at a time. "You can be so suspicious sometimes."

I stop at the base of the staircase, eyeing the decrepit steps dubiously. "This does not look safe."

From the second landing, John rolls his eyes dramatically. "Are all richies as chickenshit as you?"

Stung, I begin to climb. The steps creak unnervingly under my feet, and for possibly the first time in my life, I'm glad I'm wearing sneakers. Anything else, and I'd probably break an ankle.

The stairs let out on a big, dusty room with a missing wall that's covered in blue tarpaulin. There's a rumpled mattress on the floor in the corner, surrounded by empty potato chip bags and cigarette cartons. I stop abruptly. John flops onto the bed and digs out a pack of cigarettes, meeting my eyes with a hard, challenging stare. "Something wrong, princess?"

I manage a little bit of a smile. "Please tell me you didn't drive me all the way out here to show me your bed."

He actually laughs a little at that. "Nah, that's just a side bennie. I drove you all the way out here--" he stands up, cigarette clamped between his teeth like a fifties movie star, and moves toward the tarp "--to show you _this_." Dramatically, he flings the tarp aside.

"What?" I say.

John rolls his eyes again. "You have to actually come over here, Princess."

I move toward him, cautiously, in case the floor gives way. "I still don't see what...oh."

"Told you," he smirks, but I'm not listening. The floor drops away--that can't be safe--and several hundred feet below us is the Mississippi river, winding like a silver snake through fading landscape. There's nothing but hills and trees and the long silver river as far as I can see.

"Oh," I breathe again. Behind me, John laughs.


	11. Plans

John brings me back to school about halfway through the last period, and I try to talk him into hanging around, but he smirks and pokes my arm, not unkindly. "I got things to do," he says. "You feeling better?"

"Yeah." I am. My throat is raw from the three cigarettes I stole from him while we sat on the ledge of the abandoned building with our legs dangling, not really talking. It's nice, not to talk. John didn't gasp over the scandal of my parents separating, the way I know my friends will, though they'll disguise it as sympathy, and he doesn't really have a lot to say about his own parents, but he told me funny and increasingly off-color stories that may or may not have been true until I stopped bothering to be shocked and started giggling instead. I know that as soon as I get home it's all going to come crashing down on my head, but it's nice not to think about it all for a little while.

I shiver a little as I watch him peel out of the parking lot in the rustbucket he calls a car, and think I probably should go inside. I know I won't. Inside is ninth period American History, and Cheryl and Amy, who will drag me into the girls bathroom and hug me and ask, in hushed tones, if the rumors are true. I don't know if I can handle that right now.

Allison is in my History class, too, but I'm not sure I can handle her right now, either. I feel inside out. I can't stop remembering how disgusted she and Brian were - how absolutely _disgusted_ they were with me, and I don't know if they'd be sympathetic now. If they laugh in my face or just walk away, like I half-think they might - like I probably deserve - I think I might just fall apart into a million little pieces.

It's better to be alone.

The weather's nice, and it's not a long walk home. Maybe Marion will be back. She stays with her granddaughter when she's not rooming with us, and I know Mom started calling there as soon as she sobered up yesterday morning. Maybe she managed to offer a big enough pay raise that Marion came back. I hope so. Mom can't cook for crap and there's only so many times you can order in Chinese before it starts making you break out.

And, well...Marion, she's like family, almost. She's worked for us since I was ten, and she was always the one who made me hot chocolate when I had to study late, and told me to eat all the food on my plate because I was too skinny. She taught me a little bit of Spanish, even though I was taking French lessons and I kept getting the two languages confused. But she's old, and I think she's been sick of dealing with Mom and Dad for a long time now.

I kick a pebble and watch it skid down the sidewalk and bounce off the brick wall of a building. Maybe if Mom can't get Marion to come back, I'll go over there myself and try to talk her into it.


End file.
